


Breaths of Mornings Long Gone

by IndigoDream



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Complex Family Dynamics, Dealing With Loss, Established Relationship, Family Issues, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Grief/Mourning, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Wakes & Funerals, and you've gotta learn how to deal with that, god jaskier, hints at sexual content, sometimes your parents suck and they die before you can even work it out with them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:41:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28127781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoDream/pseuds/IndigoDream
Summary: There is much to say about Jaskier's family. They have never been quite good to Jaskier, they cast him out, they were needlessly cruel... Regardless, Geralt knows that Jaskier will always be tied to them. So when a letter comes from Lettenhove to announce that Jaskier's parents have died, the witcher goes along with him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 185
Collections: Don't Wanna Get Rid Of You





	Breaths of Mornings Long Gone

Jaskier receives the news on a rainy Friday evening. They are in Oxenfurt, tucked away in the professor’s quarters, in the large apartment that the Academy allotted to Jaskier when he had accepted to be there for a year, when the letter is slid under the door. A knock and “letter from Lettenhove, professor” accompany it, before quiet footsteps disappear down the hallway. 

Until then, they had been slowly dozing off. Jaskier had finished his lectures for the week and Geralt had come back the day before from a two weeks absence for a hunt that had dragged on. Geralt had slept most of the day, waiting for Jaskier to slip back beneath the soft cotton sheets, free of bedbugs and broken springs. When the bard had finally returned to him, the witcher had trapped him against him with a strong arm, and they had slowly fallen back to the soft lull of sleep until the knock. 

With a sigh, Jaskier gets up. Geralt watches him rearrange his tousled hair with a careless hand gesture, and then yawn. 

“Get that letter fast,” Geralt grumbles, ignoring the warmth that spreads through him at the fond look he receives. “I would rather finish the day in bed.” 

Jaskier chuckles and bends down to press a delicate kiss to his lips, intent on withdrawing quickly, but Geralt is faster than him. He surges up, demanding a deeper kiss. As always, Jaskier is more than happy to oblige, peppering Geralt’s face with featherlight kisses afterwards. They both breathe with laughter trapped in their throats, and Geralt moves to hold him, but Jaskier slips out of his arms quickly. 

“Not again, my dear. Let me read this letter first, and then we can go back to more pleasant activities.” 

“Is that a promise?” Geralt grins a bit. 

“It certainly is. And you know how I feel about this kind of things,” Jaskier winks. 

Geralt watches him get back up, admiring his form as he does so. There is something tremendously charming about his bard. Of course, there is some coming from his godly heritage; he is, after all, one of the minor deities of Love. Geralt has never quite understood how he had come to become one, when he had been born to human parents, but he had seen enough proof of Jaskier’s powers to not doubt it. 

He is pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of paper being ripped. Moving his eyes upwards from Jaskier’s legs, he sees his lover extracting from the envelope a thick paper, and even from here, Geralt can smell the thick cinnamon and apple scents that are released from the envelope. Smells that he has learnt to associate with autumn, with flashes of red in the trees and lilting laughter under the falling leaves and the rushing winds. Something that has often meant walking with Jaskier until they separated in Lettenhove, or Oxenfurt, or whichever court he was staying at that year. 

It is also something he knows that Jaskier’s family associates with mourning. Judging from the somber looks that settles over Jaskier’s features, he is guessing he is right in his assumptions. He sits up quickly, extending a hand to his lover, not saying anything. When a hand callused by years of playing the lute falls in his own, he tugs on it gently, until Jaskier is sitting on his lap. 

“What’s going on, Jask?” He caresses the man’s cheek gently, wiping away a lone tear. 

“My parents,” Jaskier hiccups a bit. “They are gone. Dead. There was an accident on the road, they had come back from a visit to friends and-“ 

He stops himself, a shiver running through his body as he holds back tears. Gently, keeping an arm wrapped around him and letting him drop his head on his shoulder, Geralt pries the letter away from Jaskier’s fingers. The handwriting is one he recognizes vaguely as Jaskier’s sister’s, and he skims through the contents quickly. 

The letter isn’t very clear, mentioning bandits on the road, but no mention of when or where, and neither of when the funerals will happen. If he didn’t know better, Geralt would find the letter odd in how cold and impersonal it is. 

Jaskier, despite having spent a few winters with his family throughout the last twenty years, is quite estranged from them. Being the only god in a family of humans had created tensions and resentment, although Jaskier had tried his best to fend them off. Geralt has seen how this has worn down his lover throughout the years. 

“Can you take a few days off from the academy?” Geralt asks in the calmest voice he can. 

He is trying to keep under wraps the way he despises Jaskier’s family. His lover does not deserve the grief of it now, and Jaskier has always insisted that, despite their flaws and their inability to understand him, he loved his family. Simply by respect for him and by wish to not cause him more grief, Geralt will not say a word against them. Not today, at least. 

“Yes, I suppose I could, but-“ 

“Go tell them you won’t be available for the next two weeks,” Geralt orders gently. “I will pack our things.” 

“Geralt, what-“ 

“Love. You need to go there. It’s important to you, and the faster we go, the faster you can understand it and come to peace with it. And clearly, I’m not letting you go alone. So, go inform the head of your department, and when you get back I will have our packs ready.” 

“It’ll take us more than two weeks,” Jaskier objects, “by foot Lettenhove is at least five days away! And we will need to rest there before leaving again. Three weeks is the minimum.” 

“Which is why I’m going to get you a horse before we leave,” Geralt says, and before Jaskier can interrupt, he places a hand on his bard’s mouth. “I had been planning to regardless. It’s the only reason I took that shit contract of two weeks. And if you insist on it, you can pay me back later.” 

It takes a few seconds of frowning before Jaskier agrees, his face softening once more. “Thank you love.”

They share a soft kiss before dressing back up properly and going their separate ways. Geralt stays in the room, gathering the things he knows are essential to Jaskier first. The lute, he doesn’t even have to think about. A bundle of oils and perfume that tickle at Geralt’s nose, a few changes of clothes, including the rarely-worn black doublet Jaskier has only ever worn when he accompanied Geralt to a burial for a contract. With it, he packs the soft grey shirt that Jaskier recently bought, and the long veil he borrowed from a friend of his, black and embroidered with dark flowers. Jaskier had joked that he would only wear it in the privacy of their rooms, but Geralt has a suspicion he might want to wear it when they reach Lettenhove. 

His own pack is much faster to do. A few shirts, a black cape, and everything that had already been in it, including potions, oils, and any other items needed for the life of a witcher. He rolls their bedrolls, the several blankets they carry, and by that time, Jaskier is coming back. 

The bard looks a bit relieved as he slips back inside the room and looks around. 

“Each time, it astounds me how efficient you are at this packing thing. Let me check if there is anything else I would want to bring along, but if not, we can get going.” 

Geralt hums and waits for Jaskier to check for anything he might have forgotten. The bard comes up empty handed, and then links his fingers to Geralt’s as they leave the room. Despite the comforts of the room, Geralt knows he won’t miss it much. As long as he has Jaskier in his arms, he will be happy. 

The stables of the Academy are quiet when they reach them. After listening to their quickly explanation of the situation, the head of the stables lead them to the end of the stables and opens a stall’s door. 

“This is Hellebore, professor, master witcher. He is one of my best horse, and he’ll be sorely missed, but I trust you to take care of him. I’ve seen your mare, master witcher, she is in a lovely condition. Seems happy as a punch, that girl of yours. I’m sure you’ll find Hellebore to your liking, both of you. He has a bit of temper, but he loves people, and he has a keen air for music. First horse I’ve ever seen calm down when he hears the wailing of the pub across, but he sure does love it.”

Jaskier has already moved inside the stall, a hand outstretched towards the horse, and within a few seconds he is caressing him, whispering gentle words meant for his ears only. It’s clear that he has fallen halfway in love with the horse, and Hellebore seems to like him as well, if the way he pushes his head against Jaskier’s shoulder is any indication. 

After agreeing of a price with the stable master, the couple heads off to the northern gate of Oxenfurt, which should put them on the right track for Lettenhove. It doesn’t take long to cross the city, but to Geralt, who is watching attentively Jaskier, it feels like forever. The bard is nervous, the fingers of his right hand drumming on his thighs, and no blabber falling from his mouth. 

Rather, he watches around him attentively, almost hawk-like in his movements. Geralt wants to reach out and hold him, but with the horses in the way and the rather high number of people walking around as they trot around, he knows the touch wouldn’t be welcome. Maybe a bit later, when they are alone in the countryside. There, only the wilderness will be able to gawk and judge them, and Geralt could not care less what a tree thinks of him holding his lover’s hand. A tree doesn’t have the ability to stab Jaskier, to hurt him for being true to himself. A wild animal may attack them, yes, but that is the nature of starved animals. 

They stop when night is fairly advanced, the moon shining bright, and Geralt fixes them a small fire before dragging his silent bard in his arms. He presses a soft kiss to Jaskier’s forehead, and the minor god sighs. Burrowing himself against Geralt, he falls asleep before they can have dinner. 

They ride through most of the following day, alternating between an easy trot to manage the horses and a swift gallop. When he grows impatient, Jaskier breathes Wildness into the two animals, inciting them to be faster. It is rather effective, and Geralt sees a faint smile on his lover’s lips as they soar through Redania, holding onto reins and manes dearly. 

Lettenhove is looming on the horizon as the sun starts setting, and once they near the small seaside town, he breaks the spell with a side gesture, his eyes flashing gold for an instant as he gives back energy to help the horses finish the journey. His spells are costly; a mix of blood magic and ancient rituals, something so primal it could tear up worlds if Jaskier so wished. 

“I could Ascend,” Jaskier had explained once. “I was offered to, more than once. But I would not be allowed to stay here if I become one of the major deities, and I think I would die from that more than from anything on this land.”

Geralt doesn’t fully understand what exactly his lover is, or how he can become better or lesser according to his whims, but today is not the day to question this. They will have time later for explanations and questions without end. Now, Geralt has to be here for Jaskier more than ever before. 

The Pankratz manor is a beautiful, if rather cold, building on the south-eastern side of the city. Geralt has been there three times before, and every time, he had loathed it more than the previous one. He doesn’t doubt that this visit will be no different. Jaskier’s family is… unworthy of his bard. 

The stablehands seem surprised to see Jaskier and Geralt, but they greet both travellers with enthusiasm and offer their condolences to Jaskier. After thanking them, Jaskier slips them a few gold coins to take good care of both Roach and Hellebore. He leaves special instructions on what they are supposed to eat, and while Geralt would usually object to such extravagance, he stays silent this time. Jaskier is only delaying the inevitable, but Geralt can at least allow him this comfort. 

When lingering is no longer an option, the bard sighs deeply and grabs Geralt’s hand, looking at him almost shyly. 

“You are coming with me there too, right?” 

“Of course,” Geralt nods and gently presses a kiss to Jaskier’s lips. “I’m not leaving you alone now. As long as you want me to be there, I will be.” 

“I always want you with me,” Jaskier whispers against his lips. “You know this.” 

Geralt hums with a nod, and they both move toward the door of the manor. When they knock, rather than seeing one of the servants as Geralt had expected, they find Jaskier’s sister Anabel waiting, laced in a dark mourning dress, strict and modest, almost unbefitting of her position as Viscountess of Lettenhove.

She looks older than Jaskier does, time passing on her human face in a way that Jaskier’s godly blood has stopped. Her grey hair is tied in a bun and there are lines around her mouth and eyes, sign of a life led with laughter and joy. There is no traces of it when she looks at the couple across from her. Despite her age, there is something similar to Jaskier to her; the shine of her blue eyes, the way she stands as she takes them in with clear disdain, the attitude of a high-born woman meeting with lesser than her, which Geralt has seen on Jaskier when nobles have misspoken about Geralt around him. 

“Julian,” she says coolly, and then, her lips twitching in disgust, looks at Geralt. “And the witcher you debase yourself with. What are you two doing here?” 

“Always a pleasure, Anabel,” Geralt grunts, and she looks appalled at the lack of respect he is showing. 

“We are here for Mother and Father’s funeral,” Jaskier sighs, and Geralt feels a bit of shame prickle the back of his neck. He shouldn’t have snapped at his sister. “Nothing more, nothing less. Despite your letter’s lack of information, I judged right to come for the burial. I’m sure you wouldn’t deny me this, Anabel.” 

Jaskier stares back at his sister, godly will battling with human anger, and neither of them move for a few seconds. Anabel could deny them shelter, could send them back to an inn, but the news of it would spread like wildfire. Despite being an oddity, Jaskier had been quite appreciated in his youth, and he still is around here. Most people have no idea why Jaskier had not stayed and gotten the title of Viscount, and there are whispers of sibling rivalry and betrayal. Geralt has caught rumours of Anabel usurping her brother, of her poisoning her parents’ mind, of her being a witch. Nothing could be farther from the truth. 

Jaskier’s chance to be the viscount of Lettenhove had been removed as soon as Anabel had been born, human, perfect. If they could have, the deceased viscount and viscountess would have erased Jaskier’s existence from the world, would have kicked him out to be a stray child more. Fifty-five years might have passed since then, and Geralt may not have been there, but the simple knowledge of it enrages him. He is glad that Jaskier had left on his own to go to Oxenfurt when he was fifteen. There, he had blossomed. 

“Very well,” Anabel lifts her chin haughtily. “You may stay until the day after the funeral, but not a day further.” 

“I will leave when I decide to,” Jaskier says as he walks in, staring her down almost forcefully. “I believe you can house and feed me and my companion for the time being.” 

He doesn’t exactly give her a choice, shouldering past her in the hallway and removing his travel cloak, handing it to an old woman who smiles warmly at him. 

“It’s good to see you, master Julian,” the woman says, and withers a bit at Anabel’s angry glare. “I will put your affairs in your room. Will you companion share your room?” 

“Absolutely not,” Anabel snaps at the same time as Jaskier smiles warmly and answers, “Of course.” 

The servant look between Jaskier and Anabel, who are back at glaring at one another, and Geralt wants to sigh. He has half a mind of Axii-ing Anabel, but he knows Jaskier would be angry with him if he did so. After all, the god could use his own magic if he so wished, but he has always said he would rather not, especially on people who would reject his blessings. 

“You will not share your bed with that … freak while you stay under _my_ roof,” Anabel hisses. “I will not allow it!” 

“We are well past what you will or will not allow, Anabel. Geralt will sleep in my bed, will share my room, will eat at dinners with us, and he might even fuck me if we want. He is my lover, has been for long, and you have no say over what him and I do, even in your house where you play at having power over people whose lives you render miserable.” 

“How dare you-“ she starts yelling, shrill and unpleasant, but Jaskier interrupts her. 

His eyes are glowing again, and Geralt feels the tendrils of his magic surround them as he tries to keep it at bay. “You would be wise to not oppose me, Anabel Pankratz, Viscountess of Lettenhove. I have yet to teach you manners, sister, but it is never too late to start.”

The woman shrinks back this time, her blue eyes filled with fear, and Jaskier calms down immediately, an odd mix of pride and shame surrounding him. 

“Prepare my room for both of us,” Jaskier tells the servant kindly, and the woman bows and scurries away quickly. 

“People will talk,” Geralt says when they are both settled in their room. “Your sister will be cross with you for a very long time.” 

“She has always resented my godhood,” Jaskier shrugs, looking through the pack that Geralt prepared for him. “One more thing is so little. Are you not happy that we are allowed to sleep together?” 

“I am, I just worry for how _you_ will take losing yet another member of your family. I know they are important to you, despite everything.” 

Jaskier sighs and comes to kiss him gently. “Thank you for your concern. I will be fine though, I promise. You are my family now.” 

Geralt hums and holds his lover in his arms. “Then perhaps it is time you make the acquaintance of my family.” 

“Perhaps.” Jaskier smiles softly as he answers. “As long as none of them takes me for a monster and tries to kill me, we should be fine.” 

The witcher snorts and caresses the bard’s cheek. “Don’t worry, they are smart enough to differentiate a god from a drowner.” 

A giggle escape Jaskier’s lips and he kisses Geralt again, a soft, lingering kiss that they have a hard time breaking away from. 

“Next winter then. I won’t renew my contract with the Academy, but I do want to finish this year and see my students through. They have an abysmally low level, for their year! I wonder what they teach them when I’m not there.” 

Jaskier keeps rambling about the academy, and Geralt listens, nodding and humming when appropriate. Jaskier is more than capable of holding a conversation on his own, and when he is going through a hardship, he usually prefers Geralt’s silence to his uneasy attempts at helping. A witcher’s life leaves very little space for comforts, and while Geralt has been getting better since he met Jaskier, he knows that he has a tendency to say the wrong thing. 

That evening, they dine with Anabel and her husband, Fredrick, and Jaskier’s three nieces. The three women don’t look much like their mother, and Geralt frowns a little as he observes them. He knows they are not triplets, knows that are all a few years apart in age, but his medallion hums as he takes in their unnaturally young appearance. The youngest one is thirty, Geralt thinks at least, and yet she looks barely out of her teens, while the eldest one, nearing forty, doesn’t look a day older than twenty. 

He exchanges a look with Jaskier who merely shrugs and keeps talking as if there is nothing wrong. Geralt knows him though. He sees the corner of his mouth rising in a smirk, the careful glances that he lays on his nieces. Jaskier knows that his nieces are closer to him than to Anabel, and he is delighted by it. 

“This trip might yet be enjoyable,” Jaskier mumbles when they lay in bed together, his face half hidden in a luxurious pillow. 

“You’re a bit of a devil,” Geralt smiles appreciatively, kissing his hand. 

A grin appear on his lover’s face. He is beautiful, a delight to behold, and Geralt can feel his heart swell with love, as it always does when Jaskier allows himself to be a little bit more than human.

“What did you expect, my love? Love is a fickle master.” 

* * *

The funeral happens three days later. Those three days are excruciating, full of tension and snide remarks from Anabel to Jaskier. The god doesn’t react, unless his sister directs her bitterness towards Geralt. It is only then that Jaskier will snap back and put her back into a place of inferior to him. Geralt can tell he doesn’t quite like doing this.

Jaskier, despite all the hurt that his family had caused him, despite the sorrow he would always carry in his heart by their fault, refused to lock them away from his heart. 

“I don’t want to lose them,” Jaskier had told him the second night when Geralt had asked why he let Anabel treat him this way. “At least, not my nieces. There will come a day when they need me. For now, they are married and happy, but they will come to me one day, and I do not want them to fear seeing me. Anabel cannot harm me, and I refuse to harm her.” 

“You’re too good of a man,” Geralt had whispered into his neck, trailing kisses down. “I am lucky to be loved by you.” 

“Yes,” Jaskier had hummed happily and caressed his hair. “As lucky as I am to be loved by you.” 

Now, Geralt watches his lover get ready for the funeral, and he waits quietly. Jaskier has put on the black doublet Geralt had packed for him, and he is currently toying with the veil, looking at it with a bit of a frown. His hands are caressing the delicate lace, and Geralt can see the sparks of Chaos leaving Jaskier’s fingertips. 

“You’re nervous,” he says, standing up and taking the veil from his hands. “You don’t have to wear it if you do not wish to do so.” 

“I want to,” Jaskier sighs, looking at him. “It feels right to wear it. It is not the way they would want me to honour them - although, I doubt they would want _my_ honouring - but it is the way I was taught to grieve when I learnt who I truly was.” 

Jaskier very rarely speaks of his time with the other gods. It isn’t a bad memory, Geralt can see it in Jaskier’s lack of reluctance to mention it. Geralt has often wondered if it is a misplaced desire to keep Geralt away from the inhuman, godly side of him, or if it is simply that there are no real words to translate the experience to a human mind. He is still afraid to ask, despite his deep-seated certitude that it wasn’t out of malice from Jaskier. 

“Would it make you feel more comfortable?” Geralt’s hands shift on the veil, finding the few pins that will help it stay in place on Jaskier’s hair and head. “You have said that it felt right, and if it is what you need to get through today, then I think you should wear it.” 

Jaskier’s answering smile is so warm Geralt swears the sun shines brighter. “You’ve come quite far from the monosyllabic Geralt I first met, my love.” 

“Hmm. Not without any credits due to you. Now, veil, yes or no?” 

The god takes a few seconds to think, pondering the question, before nodding shyly. It doesn’t befit him, this shyness. He has always been loud and bright, a presence in the world that Geralt had felt in his heart ever since they met. Each time Jaskier is reduced to a shy, anxious personality, to the boy he was forced to be by his parents and family, Geralt feels sorrow and rage fill him. This is not his Jaskier. Even when Jaskier is sad and afraid, his presence is felt through the world. He is a bright light, one that Geralt knows he is lucky to be able to call his own. 

Gently, he places the veil on Jaskier’s hair, making sure to arrange it properly. It falls midway of his bard’s chest, and despite his face being mostly hidden behind the lace, Geralt knows that Jaskier is pleased by this gesture. There is no need of words for them in moments like these; their hearts and souls are bared to the other, and they share a devotion with no equal. Words are rendered useless, burdens weighing heavily and twisting their true emotions. 

“Let’s go,” Geralt says gently, extending his arm to Jaskier. 

He himself is dressed in his armour, the only thing somewhat formal that he possesses. He had hesitated to put on less dark clothing that could have been deemed a little more appropriate than this, but Jaskier had seemed pleased that he had for intention to wear his armour. 

“You’ll honour them in the way that befits you the most,” Jaskier had said as he had helped him dress earlier. “The way of a warrior, of a protector. The way of a witcher.” 

When they walk downstairs, they find the rest of Jaskier’s family, all dressed in somber clothing. Anabel’s black dress is clearly new, and she has a veil as well over her face, but the way she holds herself is unmistakable. Jaskier’s nieces look quite alike in their dresses, and they have their hair drawn in a similar fashion as well. Geralt, try as he might, cannot tell them apart by looks alone just yet. Their personalities allow for a semblance of distinction, but even then it remains a hard to make distinction for Geralt. 

“How dare you,” Anabel hisses as she sees Jaskier. “Take this off immediately! I will not have you ridicule our whole family at my parents’ funeral!” 

“They were my parents too,” Jaskier answers, voice so calm that it is threatening. “I will not have you dictate how I dress, how I behave, at their funeral. I decide of how I honour them, and your perception of what I should do or not do is not welcome now. It is never welcome in fact. And before you say anything, Geralt will not change out of his armour. If you have any reproach to voice concerning this, they are not welcome either. Now, it is high time we get going.” 

Anabel tries to argue, but her husband steps forward, dragging her away gently, but firmly. Jaskier’s nieces smile, and one of them winks. With a movement that Geralt can’t identify where it began, the sisters move to the doorway, and then out of the door. A carriage is waiting for them, and they settle in it as Geralt and Jaskier pass the door. There is barely a quarter of a mile to the cemetery, but as the lordly family, they are not to arrive by foot to the funeral. Jaskier and Geralt are not extended the same courtesy. 

They ride there on Roach and Hellebore’s backs, arriving there only a second or two after the other Pankratz family members. There is already quite a crowd gathered around the cemetery, and when they see Geralt, some of them flinch back. That, he had expected. He hadn’t expected the few who come up to him and Jaskier, bowing low to the bard. 

“It is good to see you again, master Jaskier,” one of them says. 

“So good of you to come, Master Jaskier,” another continues. “We have missed your presence, my Lord.” 

Jaskier shifts from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable, and Geralt puts himself slightly in front of him. 

“This isn’t the day,” he grunts, using his roughest voice, but they do not even quiver. “Move, now.” 

“Of course,” the first one says, bowing low. “My apologies, my Lord.” 

They scurry away, and Geralt turns a surprised look to Jaskier, who shrugs. “There are many things you don’t know about me yet.” 

“I see that,” Geralt smiles and, lifting Jaskier’s veil, steals a light kiss, uncaring of the looks they receive. Let them all know that Jaskier and him belong to one another, that they have given hearts and souls for each other. Geralt will not be made to be ashamed of his love.

Jaskier gives him a gentle smile, full of a sorrow that Geralt know he won’t be able to ease. Losing most of the wolf witchers in the Sacking had taught him that, while grief got easier after a while, it was never truly gone, and nothing would ever take it away. He hates that he cannot fix it for Jaskier, yes. But he will not force his own need to keep Jaskier happy on his lover; they have agreed a long time ago that they could not fix each other, and that even if they could, they should not. The best they can do is to be there for each other, and love each other through the hard times. 

The bard had done more than his fair share of caring for Geralt during times the witcher was not able to do so himself. Today was Geralt’s occasion to do the same. 

They walk into the cemetery behind his family, Jaskier’s nieces walking right in front of them. It is strange that neither of them is married, Geralt thinks in passing. They are certainly of age, and by Jaskier’s account, Anabel had been married off when she was barely of age. Her sixteenth birthday had come and gone, and a few days after she had been engaged to some lord’s son who would not get the title, and was quite glad to inherit the title of Viscount of Lettenhove. _Jaskier_ ’s rightful title. 

Slipping his hand into Geralt’s own, Jaskier seeks the warmth that he always finds in Geralt, and the witcher is more than happy to let him draw closer, despite the armour. They are silent as the ceremony begins, staying just out of reach of the family. Anabel directs Jaskier a glare when she sees that he is still holding Geralt’s hand and wearing the veil over his head, but her brother barely reacts, only holds her gaze. And then, when she has almost completely turned back to the priest officiating the ceremony, he whispers a spell, low enough that even Geralt with his oversensitive hearing struggles to hear it. 

A beautiful crown of white lilies, chrysanthemums and roses blooms over his veil, holding it further in place, and giving him a regal attitude. Geralt lifts Jaskier’s hand to his lips and kisses it. This is more petty than Jaskier usually is, but these are special circumstances. He still has to affirm himself despite the situation, has to show that Anabel will not make him cower. He had not cowered in front of their parents, and he will not in front of his sister either.

Someone gasps, and the crowd murmurs, words flying between friends and neighbours, children and parents. Even the priest looks slightly shaken at the sight of the crown, and he directs a few fearful glances at Jaskier and Geralt. He is a devout of an old religion, whose gods are no longer present. They have relented their control over the Continent long before Jaskier’s time, the bard had said. 

“There are few of the Old Gods who remain,” he had whispered late one night, when Geralt had asked. “Immortality has grown over them like ivy over stones. It was beautiful in the beginning, emboldening and giving them what they wanted. Powers that they could wield at will, lives they could take and give back at the snap of a finger… They grew tired. They created us, the gods like me I mean. Gods who could ascend, or who could choose to remain on the Continent, gods they could transfer their powers to. The ivy of immortality broke them down to pieces, ate away at their very hearts. Most of them have gone into a slumber so deep that nothing short of the breaking of the world would wake them up. Even then, it is doubtful that they would.” 

Geralt is reminded of Jaskier’s words as he sees the priest’s shoulders shake slightly. Would it be the same, were the Old Gods not gone? Would the people still fear the gods who walk amongst them and bless them? Or would they approve of them, seek them and their magic out? 

It is useless to think of this now. Jaskier might very well not have been immortal if the Old Gods had not wanted to retire. Geralt would have lost his lover to one of the countless perils they encountered throughout their travels, and the witcher would have been alone again. He might not have even realized his feelings for Jaskier. 

The priest clears his throat, and silence falls over the assembly again. Furtive glances are still thrown Jaskier’s way, but the god stands tall, his shoulders rigid. From his posture, Geralt knows he is uncomfortable. Yet, to others, the bard will look dignified, or at worst, angry. No one sees the sadness that this rigidity shows. Jaskier is always in movements, always living and breathing and giving himself to a world who doesn’t deserve him. Seeing him still like this, his fingers clutching Geralt’s hand so tightly that Geralt’s fingers are starting to go a little numb at the tips, feels wrong. 

Through his speech, the priest paints the Pankratz as saintly souls, devout servant of the gods, and Geralt snorts. Unfortunately, the noise isn’t quiet enough that no one hears it, and the glare he receives from Anabel is truly magnificent. Moments like those are when he can see the family resemblances between Jaskier and her. He will never like her, will never forgive her for the complacency, and now the perpetration, she had shown towards her parents’ abuse of Jaskier. It is not his place to judge, he knows, and yet he feels rage burning bright in his stomach. 

He ignores her and turns his look back to the priest, who now looks mildly offended, but who keeps going with his speech anyway. When he is done, and it takes quite a long time and a large amount of slander, Anabel steps forward and throws the flowers she has been holding onto through the whole ceremony. 

“My parents,” she starts, her voice wobbling as she contains her tears, “were wonderful. They helped many of us go through the hard times throughout the war. They took in many children and mothers during the war against Nilfgaard, and acted on our behalf towards our king, so that we may have increased rations to feed all of us. They made mistakes, yes, but they were good people. They left me in charge of this land, and I intend to not let it go to waste.” 

She steps back after this, her tears falling as she hides her face in her husband’s embrace. Geralt almost pities her. 

Her daughters step forward, forming a single line, and they are holding onto each other. If he focuses hard enough, he can see the godly energy radiating off of them, although it forms one single entity rather than three. 

“Our grandparents made many mistakes,” the younger one starts, her voice lulling and soft, although there is an edge to it. It is akin to a silver blade in its sheath, waiting to be drawn; a promise of danger hidden between soft materials and a hard shell. “Humans are often drawn to the same mistakes, over and over.” 

“Their lives were ended,” the eldest continues. This one is more blunt, a blade who hasn’t been sharpened in too long. “Yet we must not forgive and forget, for history is bound to come back to us.” 

Their hands let go of the flowers just as the last one speaks. “Amends must be made, and forgiveness must be earned. Bonds of destiny are greater than bonds of blood, but all pale in front of the hands of love.” 

Geralt frowns as he feels a wave of peace radiate through the audience. It isn’t an overwhelming feeling, simply bright and gentle. Jaskier looks a bit stunned, and Geralt looks at him as he lifts his veil, revealing his own face streaked by tears. Geralt knows that those tears are both relief and sorrow, a strange mix that is doubtlessly making his lover feel guilty. Geralt lets go of his hand when Jaskier steps forward.

The bard comes to stand at the feet of the tomb, his hands trembling slightly as he lifts the crown from his head. 

“The Viscount and the Viscountess were vile and full of a rage towards me that I never understood. They refused me the barest affection and sent me away as soon as it was possible for them.” His voice is strong, ignoring Anabel’s protests. “They never showed any kindness to their son, and they do not deserve all the praise that has been heaped upon their dead bodies today.

“I choose, however, to believe that all that has been said say nothing of the dead, and rather speaks mountain of the living. Despite everything they did, to me, to any of us, we are gathered here regardless. Be it out of duty, out of love, out of a morbid interest to gawk at the coffins that bear the former lord and lady of this land, I do not know. To some of us, it is less of a labor born of love for the departed and more a chore that has been thrust upon us. If you have wished to not come, I would understand. 

“I, myself, their eldest child and only son, was hesitant to come back here and walk the same paths I had during the most painful years of my life. Still, I came back. To the insistence of my beloved, yes, but he had my interests at heart, and I thank him for this now. I suppose that, in some twisted play of events, my parents were also the reason I met him. Without their constant reminder that I was nothing to them, I would have not sought out fame, I would not have yearned to have the recognition of the world, so that I may be worthy to them as well. It would be silly to thank them however. They have nothing to do with my success, with my long standing at the Academy of Oxenfurt, with my friendships with Queens and Emperors.” 

He clears his throat, and Geralt can see the smile forming on his cheeks. Jaskier is enjoying this impromptu performance. All wait upon his next word with baited breath, eager to know what dirty secret he might reveal yet, what glory they should admire. He is gloating, at his parents’ funeral no less, and he is thoroughly enjoying it. Geralt grins. 

“I made myself. I owe them nothing, not even my life. I have battled death often enough to not owe them mine.” He has an amused smile now, no doubts thinking about the lesser god of death they met a few years ago, who had hero-worshipped Jaskier for weeks on end until Jaskier had gently, but firmly, told him to find another master to teach him. “Still, I am here. I often wished to make up with them, to find in me the strength to forgive them for what they were doing to me even then. I will never have that kind of strength. Love can be vindictive, an angry feeling. They don’t teach you this in the songs and poems that roam the continent.

“Still, this is my goodbye to them. They have never done anything to deserve my forgiveness, and for that I don’t forgive them. But I am at peace with them, with their memory. And they will always be, as much as I loathe it, an essential part of who I am. For teaching me who not to be, I thank them.” 

His hands let go of the crown, and the assembled crowd stares at him. Geralt can read anger and confusion in some gazes, and in some others sympathy. The one that surprises him the most is the look of pride on Jaskier’s nieces’ face. They look at their uncle with unbearable happiness. He is glad for it, in truth. Jaskier deserves to have people who love him in his family, to have people who can understand him, if even a little. 

After this, the ceremony wraps up, and Jaskier stays cuddled against Geralt’s side, his hand never letting go of the witcher’s. It isn’t very often that they do this, and Geralt can see his lover throwing some looks around them every few minutes, as if he is expecting someone to comment about their position, but no one dares.

Everyone saw Jaskier’s magic, after all. And they all heard Jaskier’s speech too. Geralt wonders if they will ever let go over their grudge against the bard, especially Anabel. He knows their hatred costs him a lot, and that it still weighs on his shoulder on dark days. 

Jaskier packs up their bags that very evening, at Geralt’s surprise. 

“I am not staying here a minute longer,” he says decisively. “I’ve given them what they deserved, and I have said what I had to say. Anabel will not relent until I am gone, and I do not have the strength to fight any longer. I want to go back to Oxenfurt, and to have a peaceful year, with you by my side. I want to enjoy our time together, and I want to be happy.” 

They do not leave until early in the morning though, and when they do set out, only Jaskier’s nieces are at the door, wordless but full of a gentle love that even Geralt can feel. 

“So,” Geralt asks casually, after almost thirty minutes of silence have gone by. “Who were they?” 

Jaskier laughs a bit and leans over to peck his lips. “Too clever for your own good.” 

Geralt hums, but he isn’t placated by the answer. 

“You met the Fates,” Jaskier smiles sunnily. “They haven’t yet grown into their power, but they will. And they will rise through the world and all will worship them.” 

The pride in Jaskier’s voice is unmistakable, and Geralt smiles. He likes seeing this side of Jaskier, the one who is rediscovering what it is to have a family outside of the people he chose. 

“Let’s go home now,” Geralt says, and Jaskier nods. 

Home might be wherever they are together, but Oxenfurt and Kaer Morhen will always be their first homes, and they are both eager to get back to a simpler life. 

**Author's Note:**

> Don't hesitate to leave a comment or kudos!


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